Different waters, you and me. We don’t pass in the night. We don’t ask permission to board.
But maybe you and maybe me—maybe we’ll end up docked in the same harbor one day. Maybe the harbor of a micro Márquez moment. A harbor that smells like roasted pig and coconuts.
When the big one comes (the big one always comes) and throws us ashore, when it smashes our hulls and exposes the faded paint of our underbellies, maybe you and maybe me—maybe we’ll be locked together.
Maybe stranded on a beach for a hundred years. Beauties will bathe beside us. Children will hide in us. There will be bonfires and proposals and first times and lasts.
And we’ll watch while we weather. While we wait for the next big one to come and lift us up and sink us in the sea.